A Connection to Life
by KCS
Summary: --New collaboration between PGF and KCS-- A conspiracy to distract a bored and self-destructive consulting detective turns rather personal when the ensuing case re-introduces an old friend and introduces new enemies. Will feature a minor Canon character.
1. Chapter 1

_A good friend is a connection to life - a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world. ~Lois Wyse_

* * *

I have been guilty in the past of laying before the public in these scattered chronicles those cases which afforded my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes the greatest avenue in which to ply his powers as the city's foremost private consulting detective; or those problems which, though simple enough in their analysis and solution, are wont to arrest the reader's attention by sheer peculiarity or viciousness.

The drama which I am about to raise the curtain upon here falls into neither category. Rather this particular case was memorable for both Holmes and me by virtue not only of its somewhat subtle personal nature and its connections with the past, but also by the fact that it began as a mere desperate move upon my part to forcibly wrest my friend from the clutches of that infernal cocaine with which he fought a perpetual battle.

This drama commenced, then, in the early summer of the year 1897; though to be entirely accurate, indications of an approaching storm had been hovering round our Baker Street rooms for some time before the squall finally broke.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I may have before stated in one of these memoirs, a very busy man in the years immediately following his return to life and the London he so loved. Despite his efforts to restrain the press and the people from declaring his return a miracle and the story of the decade, word did get out one way or another; and for months our humble sitting room was swamped in a veritable tidal wave of clients – young and old, humble and noble, British or otherwise, hundred of curious and desperate men and women, and even a few children, passed our threshold for the express purpose of gaining the aid of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

My friend, of course, was in his element; figuratively drowning in a sea of work was the equivalent of Paradise for him, and I have never known him to be happier than he was those first two golden years just after his return to both my life and his old haunts.

But nothing good, as the old adage says, can last forever, and gradually the novelty of his reappearance began to dwindle and fade, until the winter of 1896 through early 1897 came and went and brought a considerably declining number of clients to our door. Granted, our work was still more challenging, more frequent, and occasionally more important than it ever had been before his disappearance in 1891; but still, coming after such an onslaught, disconsolation, discontent, and finally depression were as sure to ensue over my friend as the fog was every morning over London.

There were times of respite and relief; the business of the Brackenstall family at the Abbey Grange springs to mind in that doldrums era as well as the perplexing case of the stolen Underground locomotive, the near-fatal conclusion of which still can cause me to shudder upon remembrance of it – but between and around these scattered cases of note lay periods of deep darkness in our rooms, of storms both inside and out, and I grew to dread those times with a greater aversion than I ever had before.

I had discovered to my dismay, that Holmes's three-year absence had not driven the desire for that infernal cocaine from his mind and body as I had hoped it had. He rarely used the syringe and its deadly contents those first two years, for indeed the drug was merely an escape for his infinite mind in a finite world, a solace against what he regarded as a fate worse than death. He had no reason to even consider his artificial stimulation when the world was ringing with his name as it was those first two years.

But unfortunately when the work began to falter and fail, so did his resolve; and by the time of which I speak, mid-June of 1897, my friend had sunk to such a low state that as a medical man, much less as the consultant's closest friend and confidante, I became very seriously alarmed for his health.

Our trip to Cornwall in March and April of that year had been something of a dubious non-success, and while my friend's physical well-being was restored to its normal state his mind reverted after the case of the Tregennis family back to its frantically rapid self-destruction; and in the absence of any problem upon which to work his deductive magic when we returned to London, he relapsed into one of those murky fits I so dreaded and indeed feared, for his sake more than my own.

This dejected state was due partly to _ennui_, naturally; from our return in April until June we had only three cases of any note, only one of which lasted for longer than two days. I imagine the atmosphere in London that spring and early summer also bore upon my friend's disposition; for when he was not working his moods tended to mirror the weather, and it was most ghastly that year, all thunderstorms and rain and sleet and only a few days of sunshine until well into July.

I have been called a patient man, by Holmes himself among others, but even I have my limits, and it seemed my fellow-lodger was doing his utmost to stretch and break beyond them that month. His deliberate disregard for my medical concern; his refusal to budge beyond his bed for days at a time, even a week and a half at one point; and his intentional flaunting of his vice in my presence all combined to wear my nerves daily to a parchment-thin edge.

By the second week of June, nearly three weeks had crawled by and brought with them nothing but rain and gloom and occasional bursts of thunder, both inside and out of the flat. Sherlock Holmes had spent the last five days on the sofa in the sitting room. He coolly refused to leave when I wanted to have a fellow medico over for tea, declined all food except the odd cup of tea or coffee and an occasional biscuit when his drug-induced appetite suppression would fade, and no longer even had the grace to wait until I had gone out of a morning to indulge in his deadly habit.

The dark circles usually present under his eyes in his pale face now stood out starkly brilliant, his lethargy grew rather than fading as the days passed, and he ignored his personal appearance completely despite his love of sharp dress and immaculate grooming. In these instances I knew from personal experience that nothing I could say or do short of a physical blow (and possibly not even then, for I had never tested the theory further than shaking him) would recall his spirit from its black cloud, and so I made no effort to even attempt the Sisyphean task.

On the sixth afternoon Holmes swore colourfully at my suggestion of some music and tossed his Stradivarius against the hearthstones, hard enough to snap the bridge of the instrument in half, and showed absolutely no reaction to his most important possession being manhandled and damaged. I bit my tongue, quite hard, and wordlessly picked up the broken violin, setting it in the hall for Mrs. Hudson to send to the repair shop later in the day. Even still, I dared not speak for fear I should set him off into another unproductive argument as I had done in the past.

When, however, as I returned to the room and strode toward my writing desk, he yawned and laconically asked me to 'pass him the Moroccan case, there's a good chap', I could remain silent no longer.

"I will do no such thing, nor ever shall, and you know exactly why!" I breathed through my nose slowly, attempting to keep my fury with his callousness under sufficient control.

The detective sighed tolerantly. "You are angry, Doctor."

"I am _furious_, Holmes," I retorted, my fists clenching at my sides. "How many times must I tell you what damage you are causing to yourself before you believe me?"

"I _do_ believe you," he replied instantly, swinging his legs lazily off the couch and around in front of him. With infuriating slowness he tamped tobacco down into his nearby pipe – the third of the last hour – and lit it, puffing slowly and looking at me over its smouldering bowl. "However, belief does not constitute an ability to act on said belief. My mind must be occupied, Doctor, else I shall lose it utterly."

"And if you continue this, you may find yourself one day to be entirely _without_ it," I decried through a tightly clenched jaw.

"Life is full of little gambles," he remarked with undue cheerfulness, waving off every argument and concern I had with one royal wave of a twitching hand. "I shall take the risk in the interests of staving off madness due to inactivity as long as is possible."

"Holmes…" I firmly forced back down the urge to strangle the man here and now, taking a long breath before speaking again. Holmes merely raised an eyebrow at me before languidly lifting a four-day-old _Echo_ and placing the pages between us.

"I have refused to allow you to enter alone countless dens in and out of this city due to the danger involved," I began slowly, coldly enunciating the words despite the fact that he refused to allow me sight of his face. "I would not permit you to willingly put yourself into danger of death or permanent harm if it was within my power to aid you. I have vowed to die in the attempt before I would allow some criminal to harm you."

"Quite true, Doctor, and I do appreciate your concern for my well-being," he drawled from behind the paper. "Are you wishing my recognition for the feat?"

"No." I moved beyond the sofa toward the hat-rack and removed my coat and bowler in an air of resigned finality. Still there came no response to my words or actions from the lethargic figure upon the sofa. "I am merely pointing out that if I would not allow any outside influence to destroy or harm you, then you cannot expect me to remain in these rooms to watch you willingly accomplish the same end upon yourself. Do not expect me back before nightfall, if then." My shoulders slumped in angry defeat even as my voice shook ever so slightly; though I doubt he noticed either.

"Do remember your umbrella, Watson – it is pouring buckets out there," he called cheerily after me.

I shut the door with even more force than I had used in opening it, barely cast a worried Mrs. Hudson a second glance, and stalked out into the rain of a disgusting June evening, heedless of where I went or what I did.

When I finally was forced to stop walking and seat myself on a wet bench under the shelter of a spreading elm tree, it was not due to chill or damp for I was still too quietly angry to feel either, but out of sheer inability to walk much farther on my bad leg; the weather played havoc with my old wounds just as it did with Holmes's temperament.

To make the entire matter seem worse than it was, I had run out of ideas and methods to work at bringing my friend out of the depressive blank despondency he had fallen into – one so deep that I was beginning to fear he might never find his way back again. Helplessness is, I believe, one of the most troubling of emotions, due to its ability to drive one's self mad over uncertainty and despair.

I had found the hard way that nothing, not even my influence, was enough to bring Holmes out of the sort of fit that now consumed him. The only thing that seemed to alleviate the gnawing pain he obviously felt in the absence of mental stimulation was his work, and in that area I could do absolutely nothing short of committing a crime myself, which was of course out of the question.

The cold reality of my helplessness coursed over me so suddenly that at once it seemed every spark of warmth had vanished from my body, leaving a numbing chill behind. At the same instant, the Big Ben clock tower over by the Houses of Parliament began to toll the hours, up to seven booming bells that echoed like more melodious thunderclaps across the rain-swept city. I had walked all the way to Westminster in my mental aberration; it was of no wonder my leg ached.

With the sound of the bells and the realisation of my location, my thoughts naturally turned from Parliament to Pall Mall, and in a sudden flash of desperation I decided to take an immense gamble. Holmes would no doubt absolutely murder me if he were to discover my actions, but his health was of more importance than his regard for me at the moment. It was seven now; I had forty minutes, to the second, to catch his brother before he left the Diogenes Club at precisely twenty minutes to eight.

I was on Regent Circus and so did not have far to go. Within a quarter of an hour I was shown dripping into the lavish Strangers' Room of the Diogenes Club by a footman who looked quite askance at my damp outerwear, primly informing me that he would see if Mr. Mycroft Holmes could be troubled to speak to me.

I nearly laughed (for I did not know what the man could be doing other than studiously avoiding speaking to anyone) but could not quite summon the amusement under the circumstances. I remained, standing uncomfortable and stiff, close to the massive fire, and leant on the mantel to take the pressure off my right leg. After some five or six minutes the door opened to reveal the footman showing in the familiar figure of the elder of the Holmes brothers.

Since the affair of the Bruce-Partington plans in November of '95, I had only seen Mycroft Holmes three times, and all of them in the company of his younger brother and only for brief moments. Never had I sought the man out on my own or even held a prolonged conversation with him, much less over a sensitive subject.

No doubt similar thoughts were passing through his own superiour mind even as he scanned my appearance with no visible reaction, but the man made no remark as to my untimely and unannounced arrival.

"Doctor Watson," he greeted me cordially enough, as I hastily removed my gloves to shake his hand. "Do take off those wet things and pray be seated. Peters, some tea would be appreciated."

The footman bowed obsequiously and exited, leaving us alone. I shrugged awkwardly out of my coat and limped the three steps to the chair the older man had indicated. Even though Mycroft was only five years my senior, the exaggerated distance in intellects and personalities between us made him rather intimidating to me and for a moment I merely concentrated on not staring as he lowered himself ponderously into the largest chair, one opposite me, and sat back with his fingertips together, scrutinising my appearance from head to foot.

I became uncomfortably aware that I was becoming the subject of a Holmesian deductive exercise and steeled myself mentally for the deluge of observation to come.

To my surprise, I found that I was to be subjected to nothing of the kind; rather than detailing a long string of deductions the elder Holmes went straight to the heart of the matter, which I had no doubt he could tell from my manner and appearance, together with my showing up in his private club _sans_ his younger brother. I did not ask for explanations of his deductions, nor did he offer them, which further served as a relief to my nerves.

"I see that you are worried about my brother, Doctor," the man spoke calmly, reaching for the teapot the footman was placing on the nearby table. The little man bowed and exited, and Mycroft glanced back at me. "Am I correct? Do you take milk or sugar?"

"Milk, please. And…yes, I am somewhat beyond worried by this point, Mr. Holmes," I sighed, gratefully accepting the cup from his enormous hand.

"What has the young idiot gone and done now? I do apologise about the inferiour quality of the tea, Doctor," Mycroft Holmes rumbled in his displeasure, though I was not at all finicky as long as the brew was hot. "We've had quite a scare lately in these parts with some of the best Darjeeling companies. The stuff is being contaminated in shipment or storage somehow and half the district has been down at one point or another from toxicity; and this substitution is rather disgusting in my opinion. But do go on, sir."

I took a longer sip, feeling the warmth from the steaming, fragrant brew slowly banishing the chill in my bones, and then continued. "It is not what he has done, Mr. Holmes, but rather what he _hasn't_," said I disconsolately. "I freely admit to fearing for his…" I stopped, hesitant to voice private matters even to my friend's family without his knowledge.

"Not his health, else you would not have hesitated with the wording," Mycroft reasoned placidly, adding another lump of sugar to his drink with an expression of distaste. He took an experimental sip and looked at me over the cup's rim. "His sanity, then?"

I was not surprised at his perception and yet I winced instinctively.

"My apologies," the elder Holmes said reassuringly. "Has he been at that infernal habit of his again?"

"We…have not had a case for three weeks," I cautiously ventured an oblique agreement, receiving an exasperated eyeroll and as dark a scowl as I had ever seen on the portly man's unflappable countenance. "Mr. Holmes, I assure you that I have attempted everything within my power –"

"Doctor Watson, pray cease to blame yourself for my brother's vices." The china rattled with the reverberation of the man's growl. "When he is in such a mood as you are so pointedly _not_ describing to me, nothing short of attempted murder to his person will move him an inch against his will."

I sighed and leant back, nodding in relief that he realised the situation without my having to divulge personal details.

Mycroft drained his teacup and eyed the teapot indecisively before shaking his head and setting the cup down, turning his full attentions to me.

"You have my sympathies, Doctor, and if I were able to give him a sound thrashing, and believed it would do him any good, you have my promise that I would do so. Unfortunately, we both know by now there is really nothing possible to be done."

My countenance must have showed my abject disappointment as my last hope flew away and disappeared as the steam was from the dregs of my nearly empty teacup, for the older man's massive forehead wrinkled in pensive concern.

"You did come here for my help, I take it, in dealing with my brother," he stated the sentence as fact, not a question, for it was no very great deduction. I nodded, and a slit of a frown appeared in his lower face. "What exactly were you hoping I could do for you, Doctor? Directness is always the best policy when one needs a job accomplished, so pray proceed."

I fidgeted with my empty cup until I realised I was doing so, and hastily set the thing down on the tray; well I knew the impatience both Holmeses had with slower minds and I had no desire to irritate the man with my vacillating.

"Mr. Holmes, your brother has not told me much about you," I ventured nervously, resisting the urge to squirm under that penetrating gaze.

"Communication never was one of Sherlock's strong suits, yes, quite. More tea?"

"No, thank you." I shook my head, for my stomach was in enough knots as it was, but the older man helped himself to a liberal amount of sugar and poured a bit of the brew on top of the whole mess.

"I do not blame you, for it is perfectly beastly stuff; I daresay it would take the finish off this table were I to spill some of it. But do go on, Doctor."

"But Holmes did tell me that in essence you _are_ the British government," I said slowly, lowering my voice.

The elder Holmes choked on his next sip. "He did, did he?"

"Yes, he did." I eyed the man's face for signs of displeasure but saw none, merely surprise. "Mr. Holmes, we both know that nothing in the world is going to get your brother out of this…"

"Blue funk?"

"Quite…that he is in, other than the arrival of some problem to arrest his attention and bring his spirit back from wherever in all heaven or hell it _went_." I rubbed my temples in an absent effort to push back the pounding there. "Obviously I am not able to bring any problem to his attention, but you…"

"You think I can, is that it? Yes, Peters," the man drawled, looking at the footman who had appeared magically before us. "Do find us something to drink that tastes slightly less like turpentine, there's a good fellow?" He turned back to me with a look of disgruntled testiness. "My apologies, Doctor. Where were we?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but he waved me off with one flipper-like hand. "Yes, yes. You wish me to give him something to do, is that it? What makes you think I have the power to employ him as an agent?"

I stared blankly at the man, and he raised an eyebrow at my confusion. "Actually, Mr. Holmes, I was merely thinking something along the lines of that Greek Interpreter business, what was it…ten years ago? When you merely handed over a problem to him that you could not be bothered to investigate," I hazarded. "But…_do_ you have that power?" A sudden ray of hope had sprung up to pierce the black of helplessness, and I fairly sprang at it.

Mycroft Holmes chuckled in a ripple of rueful consternation. "I should not have leapt to conclusions about you or what my brother has seen fit to tell you, Doctor. Hmm."

I remained silent, awaiting a verdict as the man's watery eyes contracted into two light grey pinpoints, boring a hole into whatever his gaze had fixed upon as he thought, only occasionally sending me a glance that made me unaccountably want to fidget in my chair like a boy of ten at church prayer. I was acutely aware of the crackling embers in the fire, and the ticking of the single clock upon the mantel. An omnibus's bell rang outside the large window, and a group of children ran by, laughing as they hurried home before darkness grew too thick to be safely about.

Finally Mycroft Holmes stretched himself lazily and stood, looking at me as I hastily followed the gesture, somewhat awkwardly due to my bad leg.

"I shall take care of matters with my brother, Doctor, so you may cease to waste your pity upon him," he rumbled decisively, helping himself to a liberal pinch of snuff with the studious, placid air of a man who has made a decision and knows how to carry it out.

I cannot convey how much peace and confidence the simple answer imparted to me, for coming from that man it was as good as a binding, legal contract. In one instant I felt as if a ten-stone weight had been lifted from my shoulders, my hands washed clean of the responsibility that had to be laid in blame somewhere.

"I…cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes," I answered with a less firm voice than I should have liked.

"I could say the same, Doctor," the man replied soberly. "For were it not for your watchful eye my brother would in all probability not even be alive to be causing such a mess. Ah, Peters. Put the tea down and then call this gentleman a four-wheeler, if you please, and pay the driver in advance for Baker Street?"

"You're not coming back with me, surely?" I gasped, aghast, for I knew full well what Holmes's incensed reaction would be to my returning with his older brother for a parental chat.

"No, no, no, Doctor," Mycroft drawled in amusement. "I am to leave here in exactly three and one-half minutes, and I've a mountain of paperwork to do when once I arrive home. Besides, my brother is a holy terror when his will is crossed and I've no desire nor intention that he shall ever find out you came to me today."

"Then…" I struggled into my coat, blinking puzzledly at the older man.

"Doctor, if you will pardon a simple observation, you appear to have rather over-reached your ambulatory limitations for the night. And it is absolutely sopping wet out-of-doors, and those hansoms can splash a man as thoroughly as if he had walked the entire way."

I was touched by the gesture and the unusual concern, but I could not accept the favour, not in good conscience, and I said as much. I received for my pains the most formidable scowl I have ever seen upon a man, and a quite stern reprimand on the propriety of accepting a gift in the spirit it is given, giving up one's foolish pride when an offer is made to help, etc., etc.

I gulped dryly, as Mycroft finished and stepped back so that he was no longer towering over me, and felt for all the world as if I had just been thoroughly chastened by my own, now deceased, elder brother. Strangely enough, the feeling gave me a deal of amusement and security, and it was with gratitude that I finally gave a genuine smile and thanked the man for his time, his generosity, and for his help to be given in the future.

After all, I reflected as I sat dry and fairly comfortable in the four-wheeler rattling through the city back to Baker Street, who knew better how to draw a Holmes out of his depressive lethargy, than another – more brilliant and far more lethargic – Holmes?

* * *

_To be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

_We probably should have reminded everyone in the first chapter that, as usual, this collaboration is __not__ Granada-based but rather based upon the Canon; which says nothing in DEVI about Holmes's drug habit or lack thereof, besides the fact that his failing health might have been aggravated by 'occasional indiscretions of his own'._

* * *

_**Holmes**_

"Have you even stirred from that spot since I left?" was the first thing to leave my self-pronounced personal physician's lips as he came in through the door, shedding his dripping coat and hat and standing his still-unfastened umbrella against the wall.

He avoided my gaze, choosing to concentrate solely on his task instead, though the fact that he was speaking to me meant that he was more upset than angry (truth be told, I had purposely goaded him earlier so as to have the entertaining diversion of an angry explosion – rather disappointing that his self-control had much improved over the years); so I left his cynical remark with no reaction and merely grunted, hoping he would cease to distract me from the lingering haze induced by my last injection of my seven-percent solution.

To my great astonishment, he _did_, merely rounding the sofa and the obstruction of my feet which stuck out over the side, and making his way to his desk, picking up the pen he had discarded earlier and plying it to paper without so much as a hint of further disapproval. Even the set of his shoulders, a usually tell-tale sign of tension to a keen observer, was relaxed.

Had I been in full possession of all my mental faculties and acuity, I might have made more of this somewhat unusual turn of attitude. As it was, I merely took advantage of the beautiful silence, and allowed myself to drift in the artificial stimulation of the drug and the relief it provided from the eerie voices of my own self-destructing mind.

The evening passed in this way, and without so much as a word from my friend as he took his dinner (of which I took no part) and then smoked a pipe while perusing a new medical text.

Finally, rising to his feet at last, he knocked out the ashes of his pipe against the fireplace and stretched his stiffening muscles. The lingering effects of the cocaine (unfortunately not lasting as long now as they had weeks ago) were leaving my system by this time, and I listened as the clock struck ten, the familiar creeping sensation of the black mood settling back upon me again, heavy and tangible as a mantle. Another day gone without any case to tax my abilities…it seemed to me this dry spell really would go on forever, and what sort of a life was that to endure?

"Turning in already, Doctor?" I asked, hoping to bait him a little if only for the sake of a break in the monotony. To my consternation he merely glanced at me, set aside his pipe, and picked his way across the debris littering the floor to the doorway.

"Good night, Holmes." was the last thing he said before stepping out onto the landing and closing the door behind him.

I sighed irritably and stared at the smoldering coals in the fire. It made perfect sense to me why night was a time when mankind felt the greatest despair, when everything became dark and indiscernible…when one was completely alone with one's self.

I certainly had no use for such thoughts, or such a ridiculous philosophy…nor a desire to linger on either.

I reached again for the Morocco case at my elbow, kept well within reach the entire day.

* * *

"Holmes…Holmes…for heaven's sake, man! Wake up!"

I jerked awake at the insistent tug on my shoulder, not wishing my head to be shaken quite so violently. Watson's scowling countenance met my gaze, his mouth set in a firm line of disapproval. I looked around, somewhat disoriented.

It was brighter than it had been…ah…morning. Not that it made a great deal of difference.

"What do you want?" I growled. Why in heaven's name if Watson disapproved so of the drug did he have to spoil the few hours during which I had no use for it?

There was no flash of anger on my friend's face, only the stationary scowl.

"While we are on the subject of my wants, I think it would be beneficial if you would clean your teeth," he muttered complacently. "Not that any other odor can linger in the stench of your tobacco, but I know that it would be a waste of time to try and convince you so I shan't try. You have a message."

He slapped an envelope down on my chest and also placed a cup of coffee at my elbow. So he was unable to entirely leave off his nagging…ha.

I watched, purely out of boredom, as he waded across the room again and proceeded to pull aside both of the window drapes in rapid succession, flooding the room with a horrid light.

_That_…was _painful_. I had to throw up an arm to shield my eyes from the sudden glare. So it was _late_ morning then.

"Watson, that is deucedly bright!"

I heard him snort, burble something about it being a 'perfectly gorgeous day outside', and pick his way toward the breakfast table, heedless of my complaints and the painful rays that burned against my eyelids.

"One day, Holmes, I shall have to get you to read Bram Stoker; I think you would find his protagonist's characteristics frighteningly familiar."

"I hardly think garlic will be necessary in my case, Doctor. You were only just now extolling the virtues of the toothbrush, were you not?"

My companion merely snorted and returned to annihilating his breakfast. I pulled the afghan up over my head to block out the majority of the horridly cheerful sunlight and slit the envelope with the handle of the spoon I snatched from my coffee cup.

I was surprised but only mildly interested to see that it was on Whitehall notepaper; that thickness and watermark were unmistakable.

Then there was the fact that my brother's seal and the office address were upon the top of the paper.

Mycroft's handwriting when he is calm resembles that of a besotted ninety-year-old man with severe arthritis; when he is excited it comes closer to resembling ancient Phoenician hieroglyphics, so much so that upon more than one occasion I thought a note was written in code and promptly set off for the British Museum to decipher the message, what in actuality was merely an invitation to luncheon on the following Saturday.

In this instance, he evidently was somewhere in the middle of those two extremes, for the writing was legible but his letters occasionally dipped below the normally perfect invisible straight line he invariably wrote upon. He had been in a hurry, and slightly agitated.

That was promising, as nothing short of a bullet speeding his head-ward would induce my mountain of a sibling to move himself with any great velocity.

_Sherlock, _the note ran in its usual flowery verbosity, _Have extraordinary case upon hand quite outside the usual channels. Believe it worth your while to stop by office to inquire, as I have not the time to go to you nor the proper agent to handle the business. _

_Failure to turn up within the hour will result in closer inspection of last year's income tax._

_Regards,_

_M_

I did not now whether to laugh or curse my infernal brother's terse impertinence. I settled for cursing, quite vehemently, when Watson yanked the blanket off my head and tossed it out of my reach.

"I am leaving for the consulting-room," he stated the obvious (for in the absence of any intriguing cases for us he had been spending time as a locum for a few old colleagues from St. Bart's), mashing his hat down upon his head – had he really bolted his breakfast that quickly? "Do attempt to move more than an inch or two whilst I am absent, eh?"

"Doctor, it appears that we might just have a problem upon our hands," I yawned lazily, stretching my legs out in front of me to their full considerable length. "Have a look at this."

I tossed the note in his general direction, whence it fluttered awkwardly around his waving hands as he tried to catch it, and finally landed neatly in his plate of half-eaten jam toast. My friend eyed the paper with distaste, lifting it with an unused fork, while I threw back my entire cup of coffee in one gulp, burning my throat and tongue quite badly but feeling more awake for the agony.

"Holmes, I've got at least two hours of patients ahead before the other locum gets there to possibly relieve me," Watson sighed wearily, tossing the soggy paper back to the table. "I shall have to meet you there."

"Eh," I waved haphazardly at him, lurching to my feet and fumbling to the table for more coffee…_much_ more. "You remember the office, of course."

I received an affronted glare at the implication that I thought he might have forgotten, and an admonishment to brush my teeth, eat something, change, and shave (not in that order, I assumed) prior to entering the offices of a government official, before he snatched his medical bag, hefted it with a grimace over to his left hand to take the weight off his right leg, and then shut the door behind him. A moment later I heard the closing of the hall door and the jingling of a hansom pulling away from the house.

I ate the only piece of toast he had left me, forgetting to put jam on it until I was on the last bite and being in quite a temper for the next hour or so because of it. The hazy fluidity of the time I had lost in the last few weeks, most of which I barely if at all remembered in a desultory jumble of images and feelings of despair, had vanished with the sun and prospect of, if not an intriguing case, at least the pleasure of annoying my brother so badly that he accomplished nothing all morning.

Within thirty minutes, I had completed my toilette and absolutely shocked Mrs. Hudson when I came flying down the stairs for my coat and precautionary umbrella.

"Will you be wanting luncheon, then, Mr. Holmes?" the lady asked primly, eyeing me with a wary gaze as if debating whether or not I was in full control of my faculties. Truthfully, I could not blame her, considering the past few weeks.

"With any luck I shan't be back in time," I called over my shoulder, waving my stick at her askance expression and then shutting the door, setting off at a brisk pace toward Westminster and my brother's lesser-used Whitehall office.

Actually, Watson was quite right – it _was_ a lovely day. Now I could only hope and pray that Mycroft's problem was nothing trivial…

* * *

Whitehall, particularly my brother's department, did not appear to be in any state of great emergency or even disarray, which was not surprising; more than once I had wondered if the British governmental officials would remain phlegmatic and take afternoon tea even as anarchists blew up their buildings directly under their feet.

My brother was apparently in a meeting and on no account to be disturbed, according to the young upstart of a secretary he employed, who looked askance at me even though he knew full well who I was. I was relegated to a corner chair in the outer office to await Mr. British Government's return, and spent the next half-hour fidgeting, absently scribbling unflattering doodles featuring the bug-eyed secretary, and in garnering irritated looks and one loud exclamation from said secretary when I attempted to light my pipe.

I was in a foul temper by the time my brother lumbered back into the outer office and tossed a bulging file upon the secretary's desk with a rapid list of instructions that set the little fellow to scribbling frantically, bobbing his head in servile obedience.

Mycroft waved a flipper at me and disappeared into his inner sanctum, and I followed close on his heels, shutting the door behind me.

"I was within the time specified," I clarified for him pointedly. "You were not."

"Experience has taught me that only rarely are you actually on time when I summon you, so I felt perfectly safe in meeting with the – well, with a visitor," he replied placidly. "And as you are indeed on time, I deduce from that and from the fact that your cravat has not been pressed in at least a week that you are not on a case at present."

I scowled and appropriated the most comfortable chair in the room, stretching my legs out in front of me. "Come to the point, Mycroft."

"Where is your friend the Doctor? No, you may _not_ smoke in my office!"

I ignored the glare but not the admonition. "Supposed to be meeting me here anytime now; he's working this morning for some medico friend near Charing Cross. The reason for your note, Mycroft." I was rapidly losing patience with my plodding sibling.

"Honestly, Sherlock, must you always be firing on all cylinders?" My brother sighed ponderously, mopping his forehead; for the morning was warm already, this office with its large windows and the sun streaming through them even more so. "We have a situation, brother."

"You usually do," I answered, closing my eyes in a fit of boredom and slouching in my chair. If my brother wished to come to the point slower than any clergyman I had ever heard in religious service, then no amount of persuasion or prodding from me could accelerate his speech.

"It could very well lead to a serious economic crisis for the Empire."

I opened one eye in skepticism. "Over what?"

"Tea," Mycroft informed me with an absolutely serious expression upon his face.

I began to laugh, for he looked so perfectly sombre that one would think the Apocalypse were gearing up to explode upon London, so dismal did he seem. My amusement caused his eyebrows to knit and he leant across the desk with an expression of disapproval.

I was saved from a verbal raking across the coals when the door opened after a brief knock and Watson appeared, dropping his bag inside the door and looking weary as if he had been through an entire day already. I raised an inquiring eyebrow at him as he settled into the chair beside me, but he merely shook his head and leant back with a sigh, focusing on my brother.

"My apologies, Mr. Holmes; it's been a busy morning," he murmured breathlessly, mopping his brow even more than my brother was doing.

"Not at all, Doctor; it is good to see you again. Now, Sherlock, do cease that childish sniggering; this can be a very serious matter if allowed to escalate."

"Why, brother, if it is so serious but has to do with the foreign trade, can you not assign one of your own agents to the matter?" I asked sensibly.

"It is not quite that severe yet, Sherlock, enough to justify pulling a man off the issues with the Orient's spice problems at the moment," Mycroft growled. "I am to get the matter resolved by any means necessary, but I have not been given the manpower to do so."

"Then you're _asking_ for my help," I nodded slyly. "Not giving me an assignment."

"I shall make it an official summons if I must, and blackmail you into doing it if I must," my brother retorted with heat. "You may choose to take the case the hard way or the easy way, it makes no difference to me."

I bristled at the infernal gall of my brother to behave in such a peremptory fashion, but before I could protest the treatment Watson, who had been watching the both of us like a spectator at a lawn tennis game, held up a pausing hand.

"Gentlemen, I apologise but I have absolutely no idea what either of you is talking about?"

"Tea," I told him succinctly, very much enjoying the mystified expression that came upon his face.

"Tea?"

"As in…what, Mycroft, Ceylon or Darjeeling or what?" I asked impertinently, leaning back in my chair and grinning at my puzzled friend.

My elder brother scowled darkly at my flippancy. "This is no laughing matter, Sherlock, and it is Darjeeling for the most part, Doctor."

Watson swallowed, his moustache twitching suspiciously, and his voice was carefully controlled as he voiced the sensible question of, "You…called Holmes in to settle a tea trade dispute?"

Mycroft sent me a longsuffering look as if to blame me for Watson's understandable skeptic attitude. "This is not a dispute, nor a petty setback in the trade, Doctor," he spoke patiently, though he was sighing rather loudly through his massive nose. "We are having a widespread problem with the tea trade from the Terai area – a massive outbreak of contaminated shipments, and we may have to cut off all trade there entirely if the problem is not resolved."

"Surely you don't think it's _that_ serious?" I asked incredulously.

"When eighty percent of our supply comes from the black tea grown and produced in that area of the country alone? This is _Britain_ we are talking about, Sherlock," Mycroft cried. "Not the States or the Continent, this is _England_. Do you understand what it would mean to the economy if we could no longer be supplied with our most common national drink from the Darjeeling area due to contamination?"

"Yes, I suppose it would be a crimp in the Empire's economy and foreign trade relations," I agreed, though I really could not have cared less about the matter yet; it was hardly interesting and certainly not my department. "You might suggest to the Trade Department that we invest in Sumatran coffee plantations?"

Watson coughed hastily to cover up his laughing, but my brother was not amused and said so in no uncertain terms. I became aware that his two watery eyes were rather uncomfortably boring a hole in my head.

"Why exactly did you come to me, brother?" I sighed at last. "Yes, it is a problem, I can see that…but surely it's a bit beyond both our reasonable scopes? Why contact me?"

"Because we have been able to trace the suspect shipments to one particular area, and they all vaguely, if steadily, form a rough outline with one particular plantation at its centre," my brother snapped, tossing a hefty paper list and a map with a crude circle scrawled upon it over to me. "See for yourself."

I frowned and caught the papers in one hand, leaning over so that Watson could see them as well. I still failed to see why he would be contacting me over so trivial (well, perhaps not trivial to the Empire, but trivial to a mind as brilliant as mine) a matter…wait…

I had been running my finger swiftly around the lopsided circle and then to the middle, and I suddenly halted upon a familiar name that now brought a wave of twenty-year-old memories back to flood my mind with their sharp nostalgia.

"Mycroft, surely you are not saying –" The very idea was preposterous. I had no doubt now that this was why he had called me in to investigate a matter that normally would be left in the hands of the locals.

"The diagram speaks for itself, Sherlock. That particular plantation there in the centre of that rough circle is suspect: not only because it is the hub from which the lines connecting shipments radiate, but also because it is the _only_ plantation around that area that has _not _sent out contaminated tea shipments, apparently."

Watson squinted in the sunlight at the name of the owner, written beside the X indicating the location of the plantation, and read it aloud, glancing questioningly at me as he did so.

"Victor Trevor?"

* * *

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Watson**_

I could not read Holmes's face as he stared at the diagram in his hands. There was, however, a vacancy in his eyes that suggested he was at least shocked, and his unusual silence only supported this.

His brother appeared almost pleased with the effect, his mouth curling slightly in satisfaction as he waited for his brother's answer. He had certainly come through with my request; beyond the call of duty, in fact. He had produced a case that absolutely _demanded_ the younger man's attention, a case that he could have no call for objecting to.

The silence stretched for some minutes and Mycroft permitted it, watching his younger brother until at last he came into our focus again and looked up from the paper.

"Do you find it so hard to believe that it is not coincidental now, Sherlock?"

Holmes scowled petulantly and countered with a question of his own. "Are you seriously suggesting that Trevor is sabotaging the Darjeeling tea trade?"

Mycroft calmly resisted the bait for a squabble and sat further back in his chair, raising one eyebrow skeptically. "I am not foolish enough to make such an assumption, Sherlock. And I thought you were wise enough to consider all the factors before settling on a theory."

"What else would you have me assume?" Holmes practically growled and tossed the papers down roughly upon his brother's desk.

I put a hand on his arm and met his responsive glare with a firmly disapproving scowl of my own. He turned to face his brother again with a sigh, schooling his face.

Mycroft hadn't batted an eye, but sat as coolly as a cottage cat.

"I wouldn't have you assume anything, Sherlock. I am engaging you to investigate this case, and the fact that the main suspect is an old school friend of yours should make little difference to a cool reasoning machine such as yourself. It merely should give you additional insight…_that_ is why I am bringing it to you."

It was a rare occasion that my friend should be at such a loss. He honestly seemed torn as he considered the matter, the case, the possibilities that lay before him…not all of them pleasant.

It was indeed a singular matter, which is what he craved, but my friend was a very private creature and concentrated almost exclusively on the here and now; it had taken me years to wheedle the least bit of his history out of him. It would be a galling experience for him to have to drag out matters of his own past, and possibly painful ones at that, to solve a case of the present. And what a memorable part of his past it was; his very first case, the mysterious death of his only friend's father, his only friend being involved at all. I had been rather astounded to learn of the existence of his old school chum, for to say that Holmes did not make friends easily was a severe understatement; for him to dredge up such an old and discontinued association must be difficult in the extreme.

It was certainly a challenge, on more levels than one, and I was further amazed at this show of Mycroft's cunning and sharp mind. Holmes could not afford to pass up an opportunity such as this…the contemplation of it alone would keep him from going anywhere near his precious cocaine.

Meeting Mycroft's satisfied expression myself, I saw that this had been his intention exactly; he had already calculated what his brother's reaction would be - and quite accurately, it seemed. The elder man met my eyes briefly and his lips twitched in satisfaction and triumph before he returned his attention to his undecided brother.

Holmes lurched to his feet in a sudden fit of that singular energy that seized him in the face of such problems. His eyes were alight as I had not seen them for quite a while, and his hands were twitching nervously; it made my heart lighter to see it, for he had been so immobile and lax over the last few weeks.

But he was still obviously torn, his brows furrowed and his mouth a thin line as he strode to one side of the room and back, and we watched him as though spectators at a cricket game, until at last I decided to save Mycroft's carpets the wear my friend was giving them at the moment.

"Any chance of an answer, old fellow? My neck is cramping up from watching you pace like that..."

He stopped then, and looked at me as though only just remembering I was in the room. His contemplative scowl lightened perceptively and he at least held still though he remained standing.

"I do have a number of other tasks awaiting me, Sherlock," Mycroft added. "If you could manage to curb your emotional outburst I can give you the last of the particulars."

The idea that anyone could accuse Holmes of an emotional outburst was greatly amusing, but if anyone could it was the controlled individual seated behind the desk.

Holmes glared at him for a moment more and then, sighing, drew closer. "You'll want it to be a discreet inquiry, I presume?"

Mycroft appeared somewhat offended that the question even needed to be voiced; at least he lost enough control of his set expression that his brows rose so close to his hairline as to be in danger of vanishing altogether.

"Really, Sherlock, will you never acknowledge the ramifications a case like this can have? If this contamination continues and spreads further, not only will the economic crisis be unmanageable, but these sorts of social upsets have a devastating effect upon public morale. Not to mention it could cause a panic if it were to become public knowledge, inflated by a florid press, that there has been a widespread epidemic so to speak of toxic drinking materials. If you have any tact at all, which I doubt on a regular basis, I suggest you exercise it fully."

A sudden thought occurred to me, and I headed off a brotherly retort from Holmes by voicing the question. "You said there has been an epidemic, Mycroft. Just what sort of epidemic?"

"I use the term not in its literal medical sense, Doctor," the man hastened to reassure me. "But in this area of the city especially, people have been coming down with what appear to be influenza symptoms, save that they are not as severe and not accompanied by any head congestion or such; looks rather more like food poisoning. I should not have taken any notice of the fact that half the staff and a goodly portion of the West End has been down, save for the fact that reports of symptoms and recovery times were all nearly identical."

"Nausea, vomiting, low-grade fevers, general aches and weakness, lasting for a day or two?" I inquired.

"Yes, Doctor. Actually that is how my attention was first drawn to the matter – the Minister of…well, a high official found himself at a loss to explain his sudden illness, until the next few days when half the staffing went down with the same thing, and far too rapidly for it to be influenza," Mycroft growled irritably. "It stands to reason, even had I not been able to trace the source, that the tea should be responsible, as there is no other common link among the victims that I have been able to trace."

"And because Darjeeling is the highest quality of tea one can purchase in the country, the 'champagne of teas,' and therefore would be the one your governmental associates use. Yes, yes," Holmes interjected boredly, waving a thin hand and absently fingering his pipe with a cautious glance toward his brother.

"Do not interrupt, Sherlock. And again, _no_, you may not smoke in here! Why do you ask, Doctor?" Mycroft Holmes turned back to me.

"Merely because I was working near Charing Cross this morning, and we were positively swamped with a rush of patients complaining of influenza, though I thought at the time it looked more like they'd merely eaten some bad fish or such," I said thoughtfully. "The strange factor was that a good many of them were rather above middle class, and that type usually does not contract common food poisoning; that coupled with the suddenness of their all contracting the same thing seemed to rule out food poisoning."

"But this tea catastrophe fits the bill admirably," Mycroft agreed. "The matter is spreading all over the district already, despite my men's efforts to find the contaminated tea before it is even unloaded. We have been able to prevent any new bad shipments from being unloaded onto the docks, but the stuff that had already got through is being circulated as we speak. And of course we dare not advertise warning people to be watchful, for fear of their getting wind of how serious a matter it really is."

"You realise this is also going to raise the price of the decent tea that is left," Holmes mused, flicking a glance at me. "I foresee we shall be drinking quite a lot more coffee, or at least highly inferior Ceylon, in the next few weeks, Doctor."

"And that is all you need, to subsist more on coffee than you do now," I snorted, sitting back in my chair and favouring him with a medical glare.

Mycroft's large face twitched in a suppressed combination cringe and laugh, and he merely turned his attention back to his scowling brother. "Now then, Sherlock. Do endeavour to put aside both your childish sense of humour and your personal connections to this case for a while, and -"

"My personal connections, as you term them, happen to be twenty years old and therefore no longer active. I've not even seen the man since he left England for Terai in…'77," he muttered after a moment of thought.

"That does not mean he is the same man you knew at Cambridge – _or_ that he is any different," Mycroft calmly continued as his sibling's sallow face flushed with a sudden burst of indignation.

"But you are suggesting I find out, by any means necessary; is that it, brother mine?"

"In a vague sense, yes – but you need not act as if I am ordering you to be a spy in the man's household or something equally unprincipled, Sherlock," the older man retorted, obviously nettled by the younger's defensive attitude.

"Ordering, no – but you're implying it!"

"Gentlemen, _if I may_," I interjected loudly over the thick tension. "Perhaps if you told us a bit more about the specific details and just what you _are_ asking of Holmes, Mr. Holmes –" I stumbled briefly over my words, realising how odd that had sounded.

The older Holmes chuckled and waved a hand at me. "Do call me Mycroft to eliminate the confusion, Doctor. Pray continue."

"Perhaps if you would kindly outline just what we _are_ being asked to do, Mycroft. And as to this man's legal or illegal connection to the affair, that certainly does not need to be, nor is it logical to be, thrashed out in this room right this minute without all the facts, now is it?"

Holmes stared for a moment at me before quirking a small smile and seating himself more calmly back in his chair. "Quite so," he intoned, stretching out his long legs and obviously considering his chances of survival if he were to rest them upon Mycroft's desk and finally deciding the risk was not worth taking. "As the good Doctor pointed out, brother – details are quite necessary at this juncture, and I shall not give a verdict until I have heard them."

"The only problem with that, Sherlock, is that I have precious few to give you," the older man sighed ruefully. "I have specifics as to which shipments we have traced and where they came from, but obviously my men can only do so much when the core of the problem lies in Nepal."

"Does it?" Holmes asked, cocking an eyebrow curiously at his brother. "It seems to me that perhaps someone is purposely seeking to target the upper class with this, contaminating the Darjeeling teas which are of course bought by higher level individuals and establishments."

"Targeting for what, Sherlock, a forty-eight-hour case of upset stomach?" his brother exclaimed. "We are not talking about a medical emergency, brother, but an economic one."

"But it takes no genius to see that there are multiple theories to explain the matter that do have a medical complication, brother," Holmes retorted. "The tea could be used for smuggling narcotics or any number of things; the East has been giving you fits for years with the drug traffic and so on."

"No, no, no, Sherlock – the symptoms are not that of any narcotic poisoning, are they, Doctor?"

"It is rather hard to say with certainty after the fact, but the patients I saw to did not appear to have all the indications of, say, opium poisoning or some such," I ventured cautiously. "If they did, they were the most mild cases I've ever seen, and without a noticeable increase in pulse or temperature." I did not see it necessary to add that with one particular drug I had seen every case from mild to severe and had become a modest expert on the subject over the years.

"And, Sherlock, there has been absolutely no attempt by any persons to get at the confiscated shipments," Mycroft continued, his brow furrowing darkly. "Surely if the problem lay here in London we should have had some indication of it. And besides, if someone were smuggling narcotics or something else into the city, surely they would not do so in tea targeted specifically for the upper class? How the deuce would they get hold of the stuff after it was unloaded?"

"I was not putting that as a definitive theory, Mycroft, merely pointing out that the thing might have more of a medical affinity than you were so dismissive of."

"We mustn't completely rule out the illness as a serious factor, no matter how grave or coincidental it is now," I ventured somewhat timidly, a bit hesitant to add my small trickle into the torrent of brainpower flooding the office. "Because if someone _is_ contaminating these shipments so easily with whatever this toxin is, then it could at any time be substituted with a deadly poison; think of the ramifications among the upper echelon of society then."

"It is certainly possible, but I doubt that it would reach that extremity, Watson," Holmes mused, "because most tea's toxicity stems from improper preparation in drying and processing, not from added foreign ingredients. This could very well be a mere complication of poor management in the plantations, were it not that the problem has become so widespread. There are easier ways to inconvenience the government and upper classes without giving them a two-day illness."

Mycroft nodded in corroboration. "Another reason we believe the key to the matter lies in Terai, not in London; the tea could very easily just have been poorly processed. But whatever the reason and motive, it must be stopped. Which brings us back to the original question, Sherlock – will you take the case, or let the British and Nepalese governmental authorities take over the investigation in their usual efficient and thorough_ and quite impersonal_ manner with your old acquaintance and the other plantation owners?"

I cringed inwardly at the very pointed statement, for I well knew Mycroft was aware of the exact locations of Holmes's armor chinks, and he had just shot a barb straight into one. And in the natural reaction of a wounded tiger, the man lashed out at once, glaring at his sibling in a petulant fit of anger.

"I do not appreciate being guilted into accepting a case that falls under your jurisdiction, not mine, Mycroft!" Holmes snapped crossly, again regaining his feet and pacing nervously about the room.

"Of course not, but frankly I have not the time nor energy to await your settling of your emotional state into normality before having an answer from you," the man retorted, purposely riling the detective's temper even further.

Mycroft shot me a reassuring look when I fidgeted uneasily, worried that Holmes was going to do something we all would regret were he driven to the edge of his temper's taut leash; but I subsided, realising that the man in all probability knew exactly what he was doing with his younger sibling.

"You are going to _have_ to wait for it, brother dearest, for I have little to no intention of disrupting my life to go and spy upon a man I have not even spoken with in twenty years, all without his knowledge," Holmes growled, smashing his hat down upon his head. "I shall give you an answer by tomorrow morning, and not before. Good morning, brother."

"Holmes?" I asked in some mild alarm, as he stalked past me toward the door.

"I shall meet you back at Baker Street, Watson; I have a few inquiries to make of my own, privately. Where can I access those informational details you spoke of, Mycroft?" he asked briskly.

"My secretary has already been told to have them in readiness for you," his brother replied instantly, motioning toward the waiting, be-spectacled young assistant outside the open door. "Do consider carefully, Sherlock. Weigh the odds. If you do not take over the investigation, an official force will, much as I loathe the idea of moving my men to tackling a problem of tea trade."

Holmes growled something slightly rude that I really was rather glad his brother did not appear to hear, snatched the file and papers from the startled secretary, and then stalked regally through the stately corridors of Whitehall, without waiting for or inviting my presence.

I quashed a pang of irritation with the man, in favour of being pleased that at least his anger directed brother-ward would keep him from reverting to his black mood, for however long it lasted.

And having Holmes remain out of that depression, for whatever reason, was well worth the stiflingly warm walk back to Baker Street, alone.

* * *

_To be continued._


	4. Chapter 4

_**Watson**_

I stared after the figure of my friend disappearing down the stately corridor, and then glanced back uncertainly toward the impassive gentleman behind the desk. Mycroft Holmes's thin lips curled in a satisfied smile, and he nodded reassuringly in my direction.

"Give him time, Doctor. And pray remember the more time he spends in that temper, the less he will spend in some artificial stimulation." The older man heaved himself out of his chair and moved ponderously round the desk to show me out. "I know what I am doing, Watson. And I know that you possess both the discretion and the affection for my brother that qualify you to take the reins from my hands at this time."

I lifted my medical bag with a doubtful look, to which Mycroft again nodded reassuringly. "I wish you the best of luck, Doctor. Let him sulk as long as he is able to. And I do wish I was able to tell you something about this Trevor fellow, but to be honest at that period of our lives I was not much involved with my brother. He withdrew into himself after the deaths of our parents and made it quite clear that he wished no interference with his studies or his life, either from me or from anyone else."

I paused in the doorway, the realisation finally fitting into place that not just memories of my friend's collegiate days were probably going to be resurrected here. I extended my hand. Mycroft Holmes inclined his head in understanding and warmly returned the gesture of goodwill. "Very good, Doctor. Do keep me informed if communication slips his mind, which I am certain it will."

I smiled and, after bidding the man farewell, exited the monstrous buildings into the sunshine of an unusually pleasant noonday. I well knew that Holmes in the condition and temper he maintained at the moment could be anywhere in London, and in consequence I stopped at a small café on Bow Street for a sandwich and a cup of fortifying tea (orange pekoe, not black Darjeeling) before I moved on to inform my fellow medicos that a case had come up and I would be unavailable until further notice.

After taking care of a few errands, I returned to Baker Street, to find a rather out-of-sorts Mrs. Hudson dusting the banister and the hall table outside Holmes's bedroom.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," I ventured, hanging my hat on the peg downstairs and then beginning to ascend slowly.

"Doctor," she greeted me, glancing pointedly at the closed door of the sitting room. "I take it Mr. Holmes has a case, then?"

Dismayed, I frowned. "Don't tell me he's started smoking already?"

"Quite," said she succinctly. "I do hope you can convince him of the benefits of an open window on the only sunny day we may have this week? I aired out your room as well, Doctor, and dusted your furniture."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You have been most patient of late, and I do appreciate it," I sighed, smiling at the longsuffering woman. She merely nodded knowingly at me and continued on down the stairs, running the duster efficiently into every crook and niche of the polished wood.

I dropped my bag upon the table and opened the sitting room door, to be greeted by a positive fog that reeked of black shag tobacco. Coughing, I ploughed my way to the window and without asking lifted it, waving the smoke out into the balmy afternoon air with a nearby old newspaper.

When the haze had cleared, I saw Holmes sitting in his armchair with his legs drawn up to his chest, his hands clasped in front of them and his chin resting upon his knees, and staring into the blackness of an unlit fire. His oldest and oiliest pipe was clenched so tightly between his teeth that I could see from here the tension of his set jaw, and his forehead was creased with deep thought wrinkles.

I sighed, knowing that it would do me no good to question him on his mental disturbances or upon his past and therefore not about to attempt it until he was in a somewhat better mood. Instead, I closed the window half-way, leaving enough room for a breeze, and began to clean up the residual chaos of a three-week depression. I stacked all the old newspapers into one neat pile to be burnt later, cleaned up the cigarette ends and ash from the different receptacles Holmes had appropriated and then dumped them into the fireplace, and replaced the books and papers into their correct drawers and shelves.

By the time I had finished, I was perspiring profusely and set about to remove my jacket for the room was growing very warm. I tossed the coat onto my armchair, and received a startled blink from the pensive detective as motion in his immediate vision brought him out of his reverie.

"Did you eat luncheon?" I asked cautiously, mopping my forehead.

I received a brief shake of his head, before his eyes narrowed and he relit his extinguished pipe, returning to his brown study and ignoring any further attempts at conversation I endeavoured to instigate.

I knew were I to lie down at the moment I should probably sleep the entire afternoon away in the heat, and so instead I merely sighed and moved into Holmes's bedroom to locate his luggage among the chaotic mess he deigned to call organization. Behind his dresser I located his shaving-kit (how it got wedged between the dresser and the wall I had no idea), his traveling valise was (shockingly) in its proper place at the floor of his wardrobe, and his other portmanteaus were in the hall closets downstairs I knew.

I set about laying out his lightest summer suits, for I well knew the weather would be atrociously hot in India and Nepal, our final destination were Holmes to decide to take the case (which he would, I had no doubt), and his light summer hats and so on. I did not actually pack his suitcases, as I knew full well he would just toss everything about to his satisfaction anyway, but I did line them up along with the appropriate clothing and accessories; I knew from experience that my friend hated to pack, and half the time ended up begging or bribing or blackmailing me to do it for him when we were to take along more than a toothbrush and a clean collar.

Before long, the heat became slightly oppressive and my collar was wilting under the stifling warmth of his small bedroom. My leg also throbbed with the changes of the weather in the last few days, and I was horribly fatigued from the physical and mental strain of this time of tension during the previous weeks. Finally, after I chased a runaway cuff-link under his bed and emerged sneezing and covered in dust and heaven only knew what else, I was forced to sit and mop my forehead with the back of my now-dirty sleeve, leaning my head back for a moment against his bed to rest.

I am not certain if I dozed off in that position or merely was lulled into a sort of warmly muddled daze close to it, but I am certain I jumped back to consciousness when Holmes bellowed for me at the top of his lungs from the sitting room.

"**Watson**!" I winced, rubbing my eyes and only then realising my sleeve was positively covered in dust which stung my eyes and temporarily blurred my vision. "Watson, pack your things, we leave tomorrow. I shall procure the tickets and so – my dear fellow, are you quite all right?"

I rubbed my watering eyes clear in time to see that he had bounded into the bedroom and stopped short at the sight of me sitting on the floor in front of his bed.

"Yes, quite," I grumbled, swiping at my itching eyes. "Do you _ever_ clean under that bed or at least allow Mrs. Hudson access to your room to do so once in a while?"

"What exactly were you doing under my bed?" he queried, extending a hand to pull me to my feet. I took it and rose stiffly, keeping the weight off my bad leg, but before I could answer, his keen roving eyes had flitted to the contents of said bed. "My dear chap, there was no call for you to do this –"

"Yes, yes," I yawned, waving him off but secretly rather glad that he at least noticed my efforts. "I was chasing a cuff-link under the bed; here. What were you saying about tomorrow?"

"Oh. Yes. I have decided to accept this case, Watson, more to prove my brother is mistaken in his belief of Trevor's involvement than anything else," my friend said, eagerly shoving the pile of clothing into a valise and not even checking to see that I had remembered everything.

"You believe him to have no knowledge of the business," I stated cautiously.

He raised a dark eyebrow at me. "I never said so. Merely that I don't see him as being devious enough or having any reason to contaminate the shipments of Darjeeling from the surrounding areas."

"You say devious," I remarked, handing him his extra shoes which he took and mashed down on top of his extra hat (I winced). "He's not…a manipulative sort, then?"

Holmes paused in his packing to face me, his arms folded. "Your subtlety in inquiries regarding my past leaves much to be desired, Doctor."

"I wasn't trying to be subtle," I retorted, rolling up his neckties and positioning them neatly in a portmanteau. "You've pointedly avoided telling me anything about the man; how else am I supposed to know what to expect if you do not see fit to tell me anything about him?"

"Such as?" he asked, the hints of a glare beginning in the back of his eyes.

I sighed and sat wearily on the edge of his bed to take the strain off my leg. "Holmes, pray listen carefully to me," I implored him. I had hoped he would sit as well but instead he remained standing over me, forcing me to look up at him. "I have no intention of prying into your past life, I promise you that much. As far as I am concerned, your history is a closed book that I shan't attempt to open. But I do believe I am entitled to know what might have a bearing on this case, if I am to keep up with the rapidity of your train of thoughts as you prefer I do?"

"Victor Trevor is a good man, Doctor, or was twenty years ago at least," Holmes stated coolly. "After having a criminal for a father I know full well he would never consent to having dealings with one or becoming one himself. Besides, the man is of above average intelligence – much like you, Watson. He may not be a genius, but nor is he foolish enough to leave such a clear pattern incriminating his own plantation, were he behind this."

I was somewhat startled at the oblique compliment but nodded solemnly at this information, hoping more was forthcoming. Unfortunately, Holmes had obviously said all that he cared to say, for he stopped and began packing his traveling valise with his most powerful lens and other necessities, leaving me watching him.

Finally I sighed and stood to leave, though I paused in the door and looked back at him. "Holmes."

"Yes, what is it?" he muttered, rummaging through a drawer, down upon his hands and knees at the bottom of his bureau.

"Are you going to at least _describe_ the man to me before we get to Bombay?"

My friend paused, lowering his head with a small sigh for a moment before looking up at me. "Yes, Watson," he replied slowly, pensively. "It is just that…this is all rather sudden, you understand?"

"Of course, Holmes."

"Good man," he said quietly, smiling and jumping back to his feet with all traces of his defensiveness gone. "I shall tell you everything I can, Doctor, but not until I have my own mind sufficiently sorted upon the subject. Will that satisfy you for now?"

"Quite, my dear fellow," I answered, relief filling me at the knowledge that he was merely attempting to get his own mind in order first and foremost, not avoiding his past and his keeping typical reticence regarding it. "You're treading on that clean collar."

"Oh." He hastily picked up the poor thing and scowled, tossing it upon the bedside chair. Then he glanced ruefully back at me and his eyes softened ever so slightly. "You have been most patient, Watson," said he, in a tone that in another man would have indicated gratefulness. "Do be patient with me for a little longer, eh?"

"If that is what you wish, certainly," I agreed.

"Capital. Now off with you, Doctor, and pack your things – we leave at eight tomorrow, and you know how much you despise early mornings; best to not be up late choosing clothing. Oh, and pack your revolver; you may have occasion to bag yourself a tiger or something!"

"Holmes, I am most definitely never going to hunt a tiger with only a pistol," I replied dryly. "And you are far more likely to encounter an adder or a vampire bat than a large cat, in that area."

"Oh, lovely," I heard him mutter as he stuck his head into his wardrobe to locate his waterproofs. I grinned and started up the stairs, only to be stopped halfway when he called out for me, standing half in the hall and looking at me curiously.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Do I remember correctly, Doctor, that you did spend time in India, while you were in the service?" he inquired quietly.

I shifted my weight uncomfortably and ran an uneasy hand through my hair, for I had indeed and the memories had been rather threatening to revive in painful clarity while I had been packing his things in that heat. "Yes, I did; after Maiwand I was taken to Peshawar, which is only just over the Indian border. But occasionally we ventured into the territory, though not in the Terai area. That was far too inland…I am surprised you did not see the place yourself, on your travels in and near Tibet," I replied slyly.

He ignored my last comment and continued looking thoughtfully up at me. "Perhaps on the ship, we should have a mutual exchange of information concerning the past, then," he ventured inquisitively.

I paused, stroking my moustache in thought, but of course it was only fair. I nodded finally, and his thin lips twitched in a small smile before he nodded and popped back into his bedroom without another word.

A sudden thought struck me, however, and I descended the stairs and rapped on his door.

"Come in!" he bellowed, and I pushed the door open and stood somewhat hesitantly in the doorway. "What is it, Watson?" He glanced up in the midst of fastening a bulging portmanteau, giving me his complete attention.

"Holmes, may I ask you something without your growing irritated with my medical views?" I finally questioned directly.

His brows knitted, but he nodded slowly. Thus encouraged, I continued in as calm a tone as I could conjure to keep the tension to a minimum. "Holmes, I have no idea what this Trevor fellow's view upon your…habit…would be," and we both knew to which one I was referring; he flushed slightly. "But I somehow doubt you would like him to learn of it by accident or some such while on our trip, am I correct?"

His immediate casting down of his gaze, closer to embarrassment than I had ever seen before from him, told me my answer. I leaned against the doorway and lowered my voice. "I'm not asking you to leave it behind, though I should prefer that of course. Pack the case in my medical bag," I said softly. "No one will think twice about seeing such in there."

His face shot upward to look at me in something akin to bewilderment, and I knew I had taken the correct approach. I turned to leave, only to have him come after me and stop me, laying a hand on my arm on the banister. His eyes were stormy, and his grip rather tighter than normal.

"If I do, promise me something, Doctor," he stated intensely.

"Not until I know what it is," I replied firmly, not knowing what it could be in reference to the infernal stuff.

"Promise me you won't allow me access to it in front of him," he implored without preamble.

I nodded readily. "That I can safely promise, Holmes."

"Good man." He clapped my arm once and then jumped back down to the hall, bellowing to Mrs. Hudson that he would be wanting dinner, and _soon_ if she pleased.

Laughing to myself, I continued my way up to my room to unearth my own luggage and get it satisfactorily packed before the dear lady answered her lodger's trying demands. Perhaps this case was going to be rather pleasant after all, if Holmes continued to keep in a reasonably good mood which in turn assured that I should be.

Granted, being rudely awoken the next morning at half-past six by a far-too-excited consulting detective bounding in, lighting the gas, and then shouting at me to rouse myself, did not add to that optimism much.

* * *

_To be continued._


	5. Chapter 5

_Many apologies for the wait. (glares at muse) And for some reason the chapter seemed to constantly be nodding at the BBC radio dramas; upon a final reading I can spot three small nods to the series, so if a line is vaguely familiar to you that is probably why._

* * *

_**Holmes**_

Watson has told his countless readers that I am one of the most reticent of men regarding my past; and I knew he was suspicious at the very least as to my motives for not telling him from the beginning all and sundry I knew about Victor Trevor.

The simple truth of the matter was, that I did not know the man as he was now very well myself, and could scarcely remember with any clarity after twenty years of no communication even what sort of chap he had been.

I knew well that I had been extremely self-absorbed during that period of time, due to the death of my parents and my consequential move to London, where I floated round for a year or so before settling in Montague Street. Readers of Watson's exaggeratedly florid stories probably have spent far too much time speculating on the mystery of why I left Cambridge, and why I decided to live in London, thinking that I am hiding some dark secret about my past. An idea which is, of course, so much pure rubbish.

The truth of the matter was, I left because of finances. A prosaic and unromantic reason, but quite true. Mycroft by that point was already established in his workplace as an accountant, and I was unemployed, barely scraping by on what I had saved and what little our parents had left us upon their untimely passing. It was good business sense, in addition to some small sense of companionship, that made me accept Trevor's invitation to spend a month at his father's estate – that was merely one month's worth of board and utilities that I did not have to pay to my landlord. The fact that he was at that time a good friend was merely a pleasant side benefit.

I had met the man at the end of my second term, thanks to his nasty little dog, and while we had indeed become good – I might go so far as to say close – friends, that had trailed off after he left England for Terai; after a few initial half-hearted attempts at communication we both had merely gone our separate ways into our own lives.

His leaving had been something of a shock, and a very unpleasant one. I am very loathing of change, and specially of loss, and that coming so soon after the death of my parents (though we had never been close) made me think twice before ever forming such a close relationship again; it merely was not logical and sensible to set one's self up for such painful disappointment a second time.

Work was a much more preferable way of occupying my time than trying to make a new acquaintance and companion, and so it was to work I had turned, throwing myself into this new idea of consulting-detection rather than the chemical science in which program I had originally enrolled in the University.

When my money gave out, that negated my chances of entering the world of science as we knew it. Therefore, I would have to enter into the scientific world as we did not know it. And thus was born my singular occupation.

The problem was presently (and why I was sitting on a polished deck in the sun, mulling over these unusual thoughts in my orderly brain), that now I had once again allowed myself to open up to another friend, and somehow I was very reluctant to admit both to quitting my education, not finding some way to continue; and to losing track of the only man I had made friends with in my college years, for the fault did lie at my door and not Trevor's, I well knew.

Were I to be entirely honest with myself, I would not wish Watson to know what an insensitive lout I was capable of being – though probably he well knew already – or that I had withdrawn so far into myself due to personal disappointment because I was incapable of handling grief properly. Both of those disappointing characteristics, the failure and the grief, he had all-too-clearly beaten properly in his own life; I had always known he was a stronger man than I.

But I would not admit it to a soul, and therein lay my reticence to discuss that time of my life with a man more intimidating to me than he knew, or ever would know.

Sometimes I wonder if the good Doctor is truly as obtuse as he appears sometimes regarding my ability to read thoughts from a man's features, for on several occasions (the present one included) I have been aware of his keen eyes upon me, and felt that perhaps I am not quite as good at concealing my thoughts and feelings as I have always believed.

True to form, though, and also due to a faint lingering bout of seasickness (we had hit another heavy wind off the coast of Africa last night), he merely closed his book with a small sigh, after raising a quizzical eyebrow at me as if to ask why I looked so studious.

"Still feeling poorly?" I asked, stretching my legs out in front of my comfortable chair.

He nodded ruefully, his face still a bit pale. "I am just glad the first part of the journey was by train."

I nodded, stifling a yawn. This voyage had been rather uneventful so far, merely train after train. I was glad for the diversion a ship and its passengers offered, though I was sorry Watson did not enjoy a rough sea as much as I. But the weather was now, after two days, clear and balmy and sunny, and hopefully would stay that way until we reached Bombay.

Out of respect for Watson, who was obviously not feeling well, I had made the monumental effort to refrain from even thinking of the cocaine concealed in his black bag, instead prowling about the ship at all hours when I could not sleep, exploring and generally attempting to occupy myself while he was so miserable in his stateroom.

This fine morning he had at last ventured out, the storm having blown itself away equator-ward in the wee hours of the morning, and we were seated along the deck in two comfortable chairs, enjoying the sun and fresh air (or at least he was, I was just there for him).

My eye caught the book he was in the act of slipping a marker into and setting on the table between us, and I stared even as he caught the bent of my gaze and blushed a more healthy color than he had been since being sick.

"What on _earth_, Watson." I tried to hide my amusement, but did not restrain the broad smile in time.

"Well, it _is_ relevant…in a way," he cried defensively, trying to shove the book out of sight under him.

"In a way."

"Holmes…"

I laughed at his consternation, but I was glad to see the color stay in his face. "Really, Doctor – Kipling's _The Jungle Book_? Isn't that a bit below your reading level?"

"It's for the _atmosphere_," he protested feebly, squirming in his chair before subsiding into a small fidgeting, looking sideways at me like a child caught snooping in his father's private papers.

I merely laughed and turned my chair so I was facing him, steepling my fingers in a gesture of concentration. "Speaking of which, you said you would tell me about it," I began cautiously.

Relieved to drop the subject of his reading material, he also turned his chair, and a thoughtful look fell across his eyes. "India, you mean?"

"Yes, in a general sense. I am aware that Darjeeling is not actually India but rather Nepal, but it is basically the same, from what I remember on my brief travel through it to Tibet," I answered. "Give me a snapshot of the _atmosphere_, as you put it."

"Well…it's hot, for one thing, this time of year; though not as bad as it will be in August," said he pensively. "I don't know about the Darjeeling area, but I have been to Bombay; just before I was sent back to England. It's…a potpourri of people, a melting pot of all nationalities. Bombay is not what you would expect when you think of India; too diverse, too industrialized a port and city, you know. But once you can get below the surface of the industry and the military, it is beautiful. Tall palm trees and exotic plants dotting the gardens of the larger houses, the islands in the distance sparkling in the ocean…the smells are more exotic, and the colours brighter, somehow…" he trailed off suddenly, blushing again. "Shall I cut out the poetry?"

I blinked out of my reverie and smiled instead. "Not at all; I wanted a picture and I got it. Perhaps you should write for the travel guides instead of a sensational magazine?"

I expected him to laugh and make some standard response, the way he always did when I tweaked his writing, but to my surprise he merely looked suddenly ill-at-ease…even worried.

"Something wrong, Doctor?" I asked, tilting my chair more toward him and pushing the brim of my light hat back to better see him.

"Well…" he paused with a troubled expression, pinching his nose in a gesture I recognised.

"Go on."

"Well…" he swallowed, finally looking at me with worry flickering in the back of his eyes. "Holmes, what am I going to do about the story I published in the _Strand_?" he asked, speaking all in a rush as if wanting to get the words out before I could answer. "I changed dates and names and even pertinent facts, I promise, but – I had no idea I would ever even meet the man…no idea that I would even ever see _you_ again…what if he is angry about the story?"

It took me a full ten seconds to process his rapid words, uttered in a tone of unease so deep he did not care if I were going to make some snide remark about his scribbling. Then another ten seconds to realise the issue at hand, and then I put a hand on his arm to stop the half-frantic explanation.

"Watson, do calm yourself," I reassured him. "For one thing, the _Strand_ is advertised as fiction, is it not?"

He nodded uncertainly. "For the most part, yes."

"Then legally there is nothing that you have to worry about. For another, I read the story, and you changed nearly all the facts except his name, for heaven's sake. I barely recognised the story itself, so far did you deviate from the cold hard truth in your usual romantic fashion. By the way, you made a mistake on the dates, you know."

He blinked, suddenly coming back to the present with a start. "I what?"

"You said the papers Trevor, Sr. left behind read something like _'Some particulars of the voyage of the barque_ Gloria Scott_, from her leaving Falmouth on the 8th October, 1855...'"_

"And?"

"And earlier in the story you said the seaman Hudson told Trevor's father that it had been _'thirty years or more'_ since he had last seen him."

He stared blankly at me for a moment, before doing the math in his head and settling back with a moan, his chin in his hand as his elbow rested upon the chair-arm. "Wonderful. So not only did I write a story about someone I am going to meet in person in a week and a half, but I also misplaced the dates."

He looked so disconsolate that I was almost sorry I had distracted him with his own error. "Be that as it may, Watson, you changed nearly everything about the story. And for another, I doubt that the _Strand_ sells many copies outside of England."

"True…" He perked up hopefully. "You think he hasn't seen it?"

"I highly doubt it," I affirmed. "And even if he has, he's a deucedly good-natured chap; I doubt he would take offense. Do not worry yourself on the matter, Watson."

My friend nodded uncertainly, but he did relax slightly, the lines of trouble in his face smoothing out at last; this had obviously been preying upon his mind for some time.

"Good-natured, you say?" he repeated in an obvious effort to keep the conversation moving in that direction.

I nodded cautiously. "To a fault, actually. Fairly easy-going, and while he did have a backbone he didn't assert himself unless thoroughly aroused." I glanced pulled out my watch and glanced at the time, then rose to my feet. "Come, Doctor. I shall give you all the information you require over breakfast."

--

_**Watson**_

I was slightly dubious over the wisdom of attempting a hearty breakfast so soon after an upset stomach, and so contented myself with a fortifying cup of tea (carefully requesting green for its healthful values as well as to avoid the usual black) and some toast and marmalade.

Holmes bolted his sausage and eggs with a good enough appetite, talking between bites to me all the while in that peculiar sporadic fashion that made him one of the most fascinating and one of the most aggravating conversationalists I have ever come across.

"I do believe that fellow is running from the authorities for smuggling," he said confidentially to me, pointing with his egg-spoon to a young chap at a nearby table. "Pass the salt. What exactly did you want to know about Victor Trevor?"

I blinked dubiously at the harmless-looking youngster, passed the salt-shaker, and then focused in due turn on the third sentence. "Well…describe him, first of all. What does he look like?"

"Or rather, what did he look like twenty years ago?" my friend corrected, tapping the fingers of his free hand upon the table in thought. "Well…about your height, strongly built. He was an athlete; I believe I might have told you that. Sandy hair, blue eyes, strong jaw…his voice is, or was, higher-pitched than yours, but not so high as mine. Just a normal, average young Englishman, no remarkable features. Are you going to eat that toast?"

I shook my head and passed the remaining piece to him, leaning forward in my eagerness. "What was he like, his personality?" I questioned, watching Holmes's eyes flit about the room briefly before returning to my face.

"Energetic, ridiculously energetic. Always doing something; not the type to sit around and while away the hours with a book," Holmes replied around a mouthful of toast. "Odd thing, that he was rather a good-natured chap, had no undesirable qualities really; but he was a bit on the shy side, and so had not many friends. He had a magnetic, humor-loving personality, he just did not allow it to show unless he was comfortable with people."

I nodded, thinking about my friend's words and appreciating his taking the time to tell me about the man; I knew speaking of his past never was a task he enjoyed. "So he was as friendless as you until you found each other?"

"You needn't make it sound like a sordid storybook, Watson," Holmes snorted, draining his coffee-cup. "But in essence, yes. I was far too busy with my studies for a social life, and he, while he was involved in the athletics and so on, had no close friends. Many acquaintances, but no close friends."

I understood that, certainly, for when I had returned to London from the army I had been in the same position. Stamford I knew, as well as a few of my fellow medicos at St. Bart's, and even a few of the Scotland Yarders in the ensuing years; but Holmes had been the only close friend I had until a few years later, when I could afford to have a social life.

"He was so ridiculously careless," Holmes chuckled. "It was quite refreshing, from the drudgery of studies and schooling, his sense of humor and love of life. Oh, and that horrid little dog of his – ugh. He loved the little monster like a child, and it always hated me. Even after that initial attack it came after me every time it saw me. Chewed up my anatomy textbook as well, the little blighter."

I laughed at this last, though I was beginning to feel ever-so-slightly troubled about the ease with which the detective cheerfully referred to this old friend of his, and what enjoyment was evident upon his face as he warmed to the topic; a brighter, happier sparkle had appeared in his eyes than I had seen in quite some time, and one that I had not been able to elicit no matter the effort I had put into the endeavour.

Holmes had been silent for a long moment while these conflicting and childish thoughts had been taking over my common sense, and he was now toying with his napkin-ring. Suddenly he looked up at me, and offered me a lop-sided smile. "In many ways, you remind me of him, Watson," said he warmly. "With one very significant difference."

"Which is?" I asked dubiously, after he had paused to shove the remaining toast into his mouth.

In a rapid fluttering gesture, he tossed his napkin down onto the table. "Are you up for a walk around the deck, old fellow?"

"You are so dashed infuriating!" I cried, glaring at him as he rose and left me, throwing a mischievous grin over his shoulder even as I scrambled to rise and follow.

I caught up with him on the polished deck, and for a moment we stood at the rail, watching the sun glint off the blue water. The warmth and the fresh breeze did much to banish the remaining cobwebs around my brain and made me feel quite a lot better in body, as had our frank conversation this morning in spirit.

"What is the difference?" I asked curiously, after Holmes had leant forward for a few minutes, his forearms on the rail beside mine and his hands clasped in front of him, his fingers twitching nervously.

"A highly significant one," he replied softly, and his eyes remained on the water rather than turning to me; an evidence that the admission he was about to make was rather closer to his heavily-guarded heart than he would prefer anyone to enter except under unusual circumstances.

I waited patiently, and was rewarded when the mask over his features lifted slightly, and he offered the ocean below us a sad smile. "The difference is that, when a tragedy struck, you stood and fought it, and came out the other side still standing as strong as ever. Trevor could not stand to live with the memories of his father and his home, and so sold the estate and left the country, never intending to come back. He said the memories were too painful, and he wanted a fresh start."

I was touched by the compliment, offered in his own peculiar way, but also realised how childish it was of me to be even slightly envious of the man's connection with my friend's past life; obviously his leaving had affected Holmes deeply, and both of them had been so young, to lose a family like they had.

"We had words to that effect," Holmes muttered, almost inaudibly; I was not certain at first that he had even spoken to me. "Before he left. I wish…" he stopped, shook his head. "Never mind, Doctor. At any rate, you now know most of everything about the man. I think you shall get along well enough."

I had been watching his face, and especially his eyes, which were slightly melancholic and filled with what I would have termed regret in another man. I impulsively laid a hand on his arm as we stood there in the balmy morning, the salty breeze whipping about the ship as she steamed steadily toward our destination.

"If he is as good-natured as you say, Holmes, then you should know that he will not be holding against you anything that happened when he left," I said firmly, logically. "I am certain he will be happy to see you."

I felt him start in surprise under my hand, and his grey eyes slid over to meet mine, slowly crinkling at the edges in amusement. "And you believe I am the only one of this partnership capable of deductive reasoning, Watson."

"I've had a good tutor," I replied flippantly, very pleased to see the uncertainty in his gaze vanish into the previous cheerfulness I had seen. Regardless of who put the twinkle back into his eyes, I was merely glad to see it after these weeks of doldrums and black depressions.

"Oh, the best," he agreed complacently, smirking at me when I rolled my eyes. "Now that we've done interrogating each other, shall I beat you at a game of chess, or are you still intent on pursuing Kipling's child-rearing animals through imaginative India?"

* * *

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Watson**_

I freely admit to a growing nervousness that only increased the closer we drew to Bombay, but especially the morning we were to arrive in the largest Indian port. It was not truly due to returning to a country that held a nightmarish memory for me, for I had long since come to terms with that part of my life (during my waking hours at least), but rather that I was unaccountably nervous about meeting the man who held the distinction of being my companion's only university friend – indeed his only friend – until I had come along sixteen years ago.

I am certain that Holmes noticed my unease, as he noticed everything about me, but he was good enough to not comment on the fact; at least not until Bombay was in sight. We were standing on the deck, watching the ships and land take shape on the horizon as we began the approach.

"My dear fellow, you haven't said two words all the morning," I heard his voice as he came up behind me while I stood at the rail, looking out over the water, and I felt him clap my shoulder. "As your skin is not the greenish tinge it was during that storm the other night, I can safely rule out seasickness. Are you truly so nervous about meeting a man I myself haven't seen in twenty years?"

"A little," I admitted frankly, watching a small schooner take shape to our left.

"Well, to be brutally honest, so am I," he muttered with a hint of plaintiveness. "I mean, really, it's been so long…he could be married with six children, fat and balding for all I know."

I laughed even as he grinned at some mental picture, and felt a bit of my tension dissipate with the ease of our conversation. "You don't even know if he is married?" I asked in amusement.

"Not the slightest idea," Holmes answered cheerfully, smiling and tugging on my arm as we began to approach the port. "Come, we must get our luggage; I don't want to be the last ones off this blasted boat, and he is supposed to be waiting for us somewhere on the docks."

It took another hour before the dense, brown shoreline grew into the recognizable ports and docks of India's largest and capital city, cluttered with buildings so dense it made our own London appear spacious and comfortable. Trees and balconies hung out over the water, and everywhere one looked one was met with the chaotic, colorful sights that one could not see anywhere else in the world. It would have been an overwhelming experience to most ordinary individuals, but Holmes's eyes viewed the entire scene in only a mildly interested glance.

As for myself, I was seized by a severe bout of nostalgia. It was rather like returning to a childhood dream that has been half-forgotten. Every smell and sound assailed me with the force of a cannon blast, and I could not help but turn my head eagerly as I tried to take them all in. Details and memories that had become blurred with time came rushing sharply back. For an instant it was as though I had never left, and sixteen years of my life melted away as London became the dream and I was once again a newly invalided soldier just returned from Afghanistan.

I was startled out of this bizarre sensation of Déjà-vu as I was bumped by a burly Lascar on the docks and stumbled into Holmes, who caught my arm automatically to keep my still sea-unsteady balance. He scanned the crowd over the tops of most of the men's and ladies' heads.

"Confound it," he muttered irritably, trying to shade his eyes from the hot sun I remembered so well. "Where the devil is the man? He should not be that hard to spot, even if he has changed," he added pointedly, glancing dubiously round at the colourful and varied native costumes, mixed with the white linens and straw hats of the Europeans.

"Perhaps he can't see us," I suggested loudly over the din, smiling at the sight of a brilliantly-coloured bird fluttering over our heads toward a nearby tree. The press of bodies was quite incredible; I had completely forgotten the feeling, and combined with the heat and the thick, spice-scented air it was almost stifling.

"Yes, let us get out of this bedlam and – VICTOR!"

I winced, and several passers-by stared in amazement at hearing English being bellowed at the top of that man's formidable lungs, and before I could even open my mouth his long legs and wiry form had begun to shove through the crowd, narrowly avoiding running over a young fellow in a turban with a white, spidery monkey clinging to his shoulder. The lad scowled and swore at him in exuberant Hindi, shaking his fist.

I sighed and, moving my heaviest bag to my right arm to take the strain off my shoulder, endeavoured to follow as best I could in the direction my friend had disappeared to in the crowd. After a few moments of polite pushing, I broke through the mass of milling people and animals and saw my friend talking animatedly under the shade of an awning with a man about our age, nearly as tall as Holmes, middle-sized, dressed in a light grey suit and a equally light straw hat over a shock of thick sandy hair and a pair of clear blue eyes – Victor Trevor.

I hung back in a sudden fit of shyness, wondering how best to break into this reunion of old friends, until at last Holmes whirled about as if just remembering my presence, his face rather vexed until his eyes lit upon me. He instantly relaxed and held out a hand to me, still animated, and his face flushed.

"Watson," he called even more rapidly than was usual, and I could see from the dancing brightness of his eyes just how truly excited he was about this. "Watson, this is Victor Trevor. Trevor, my dear friend Dr. John Watson," he said with a wide smile, beckoning me closer and then laying a hand on my arm at the introductions, a gesture that did more to ease my nervousness than the Trevor fellow's quick smile and nod did.

"Mr. Trevor."

"How are you, Doctor?" the man asked cordially, shaking my hand in a firm grip. "You'll forgive my not knowing much about you other than your name, but I'm afraid English literature rarely finds its way into this part of the world."

"That is not a bad thing," Holmes snorted in sarcasm, though his eyes twinkled with unusual good humour.

I smiled, relaxing under the honest openness of Holmes's old friend's speech and his easygoing manner. "Was he always this abhorrent of quality reading material?"

"Quite," Trevor chuckled, his smile widening as Holmes scowled in mock indignation. "You know it was his third term before I could even convince him Socrates was a person and not a childhood ailment?"

I laughed aloud at that, feeling my tension slowly seep away under the easy conversation, together with the fact that Holmes looked positively more happy than he had in weeks. I could almost forget our purpose here; a mere holiday would have been lovely as well. Holmes was right; the man's nature was certainly amiable, and the thought crossed my mind that he might have made a fine diplomat.

"But we should be getting on before it gets too hot to travel," Trevor said, glancing up at the sun. "Your luggage should have been taken to the train already, and it's just a short walk. May I take that bag from you, Doctor?"

I glanced up in surprise as he suited the action to the word. "That isn't necessary –"

"As I said, most of your stories have not made their ways here yet, Doctor, but I do own a rather dog-eared copy of _A Study in Scarlet_," the man replied with a quick smile. "And I'm quite certain a man never fully recovers from the sort of wound you received in service over the border, am I correct?"

My last reservations regarding the man dropped, for now at least, and I nodded with a small smile. "Not fully, no. Thank you."

"My pleasure," the fellow replied cheerfully. "Holmes, don't stare like that; you'll have every peddler accosting us before we've gone two blocks. Not to mention it's deucedly impolite."

I liked the man more every moment that went by.

--

It was a short walk, and despite the press we made the train in plenty of time, thanks to Trevor's direction and Holmes's lack of scruples when it came to shoving and elbowing everyone who didn't move out of his way quickly enough. The train was old, like everything else in India (seemingly everything that touched this exceedingly ancient land took on an unusual quality of age), and my friend cast a dubious glance at the slightly rickety cars but brightened visibly when we found an empty compartment, small and faded though it was.

"We should reach Darjeeling by this evening," Trevor said cheerfully, throwing our valises up into the rack and offering my friend a newspaper printed in English.

Holmes accepted the dingy and exceedingly limp paper with a nod of thanks and promptly proceeded to ignore us for the first hour of our journey, much to my discomfort. I fidgeted in my seat beside Holmes for a few minutes, engaging myself in the flow of everyday pageantry that continued as we gathered speed and left the crowded, open air platforms, into the spacious, seemingly endless agricultural area. It was a patchwork of lush, green fields, and sparse sandy furrows that refused to maintain any life save for the occasional clump of bushes and trees that grouped around various waterholes and streams.

Then I hesitantly glanced back into the compartment at Victor Trevor.

To my embarrassment, he was regarding me, or rather both myself and Holmes, with some curiosity, and raised an eyebrow when I peeked at him. I felt my face grow a bit warm, but the man merely stretched his legs out, avoiding Holmes's which were sprawled conspicuously in the aisle, and began to fan himself with his straw hat.

"So, Doctor." He broke the awkward silence after a moment. "What exactly has our friend here told you about me?"

"Mm…just the basics. How you met and so on," I replied cautiously, wanting very much to avoid the entire issue of the _Gloria Scott_ if at all possible.

Trevor snorted a laugh and replaced his hat upon his head. "My poor little pup; he got kicked rather hard there when they met that first time," he informed me, casting a mischievous glance at the oblivious detective.

Holmes silently turned a page of his newspaper, not even flicking an eye in our direction.

Trevor smirked, lit a large fragrant cigar, and offered me one as well. I declined due to the heat, and he replaced them into his jacket pocket. "Well, you know the connection between us then, Doctor," he continued cheerfully. "While I regret the circumstances that brought about this meeting, I cannot say I'm entirely unhappy about seeing him again. So tell me, where did you come into the old misanthrope's picture, and how the devil did you stay a part of it? Was that story you printed in that Christmas Annual (1) actually the truth?"

I repressed a laugh when Holmes's grey eyes slid to their corners to glare peripherally at me, and merely summarized the salient details of our meeting for my interested audience.

When I had finished, Trevor glanced out the window at the hot sun and loosened his collar, nodding at me affably all the while. "I admire your service in the Afghan War, Doctor," he said frankly, and I warmed slightly to the honest praise. "There are military outposts dotted around the plantations, and occasionally the officers visit us; I shall have to introduce you to a few of them later in the week. Holmes, are you going to continue to be this unsociable for the entire journey, or just until we've exhausted all the possible small talk we can conjure up?" This last was aimed at my friend, whose eyes then appeared irritably over the top of the newspaper, much to my amusement, to bore a hold into the head of the unfortunate old acquaintance.

"I was merely familiarizing myself with the local news, seeing as this is not a pleasure trip despite your and Watson's chatter," he retorted, folding the paper and tossing it beside him in a small fit of petulance.

"No, I suppose not," the other sighed, folding his arms after puffing thoughtfully on his cigar. "I am rather glad the authorities have relinquished the investigation to you, though, rather than having those bumbling officials poking about at all hours. Deucedly annoying, and we can't let the little one out to play as it is due to the marauding tiger; with those inspectors about there's even less time for the poor child to be outside."

I blinked. "_Marauding tiger_?"

"The _little one_?" Holmes asked at the same time, and then glanced ruefully at me.

Trevor smiled, his face softening instinctively as he pulled out a thin wallet and flipped through the compartments. "Didn't you know? I've married, Holmes, and I've a little girl, six years old. Her name is Elizabeth, Beth we call her. Here," he added, leaning across the compartment and handing a small photograph to me.

Holmes peered over my shoulder at the picture, that of a slightly younger Trevor with a rather attractive, dark-haired woman, obviously his wife, who was holding a little one with light curls and her father's features.

"That was taken two years ago," the man said with another smile. "Helen – my wife, Holmes –"

"Yes, I _had_ managed to deduce that," my friend drawled.

Trevor smirked. "She's the younger daughter of a retired army colonel. The old boy himself lives on a neighboring plantation, a few miles from us."

"I can't believe you are married," Holmes muttered annoyedly, sitting back in his seat as I passed the picture back to Trevor.

"Happily, and for ten years now," he replied with a wide smile at Holmes's scowling. "Still not interested in settling down with a woman, then, eh?"

"Certainly not," Holmes retorted with some heat.

"I'd like to see the woman who would put up with you, anyway," the other rambled absently, stubbing out his cigar and paying no heed to the raised eyebrows and dark glower his unsuspecting head was receiving.

I choked back a fit of rather childish sniggering and attempted to veer the conversation back on topic. "She looks like a lovely woman, and you've a beautiful girl, Mr. Trevor," I complimented sincerely.

"Thank you, Doctor. But yes, as I was saying, we can't let Beth out to play even with her _ayah_, due to the fact that there've been a few sightings of a renegade tiger prowling about the plantations of late," Trevor informed us, his sandy brows coming together in obvious concern. "Attacked a few odd scattered workers in the last fortnight, and not just at night either."

"Is it sick, then?" I asked, my mind recalling more than one occasion where I had either heard of or encountered the same problem while I was in the East.

"No one knows; thankfully the beast never stays round for long. Hasn't struck down anyone in the daylight, though; just in the evenings and mornings. We've had problems of the same sort before with the odd animal, but it's still deucedly annoying when the little ones are cooped up indoors all the day."

Trevor paused as the swaying train whistled a warning for a small station, and I glanced out of the window at the lush green foliage as he continued. "We've a half-hour here; have you had luncheon? And then you may commence your interrogation of me, Holmes, because I know you're going to sooner or later."

* * *

_To be continued_

_(1) - Unlike the short stories, STUD was published in Beeton's Christmas Annual._


End file.
